The Sunday Poem: Don McIver... Damen Stop

This poem is about Chicago. Ever wondered what living in a big city is like? Read on. Carl Sandburg absolutely loved Chicago. To me, living there is one of those experiences remembered more fondly with 40 years of hindsight.

Chicago has several subway/elevated lines. I used to ride the Ravenswood line. This poem is about the Blue Line, which runs from The Loop to O'Hare airport on the northwest side. Albuquerque poet Don McIver nails it with this one.

Damen Stop

A rickety ride on a the Blue Line to Bucktown. Snow falling on the city as we grind up the self-imposed hill as the train goes from subway to elevated and the city opens up down below both windows: small wooden decks with neglected grills, graffiti only a commuter will see and no eye contact, head phones, small quiet conversations, people concentrating on books as each stop is announced and suddenly its Damen--my stop.

Platform made of steel, covered in creaky weathered wood with grey snow pushed up into corners and the crowd steps off the train into weather, windy, wet, wintry weather and we wind our way around an equal number getting on and we march in asyncopation, bottled up behind a big, lumbering black woman, carrying too many bags to make these slip-steel steps something navigated haphazardly. She slips... and the air from the rush hour commuters withdraw in one long, uniform gasp. No one, no one steps around or over, even people down below her stop and crane their necks to check-in. "Are you okay?" comes a muted question from someone on the Damen stairs. She mumbles, then lumbers up, with the help of some stranger as he helps her down the steps.

Chicago...Carl Sandburg calls you the "City of Big Shoulders," and today you showed me why.

Don almost always nails it. There is so much of Chicago in this poem I feel like I'm there... making my way off the train, bottlenecked behind the "big, lumbering black woman / carrying too many bags," and on cue to help her up from her fall. Having lived in New York, I know big cities (New York, Paris, Chicago) often have reputations for their people being cold and uncaring. The opposite is usually true. This poem captures so much of what sits on those big shoulders...

I like this kind of poem, easy to read, no nonsense, descriptive. It paints a scene as well or better than a motion picture, from important subtleties -- no eye contact -- to major chaos, a borderline disaster, and a rescue -- a complete plot, hilarity, wariness, noble acts. Thanks, Don. And you, too, Carl. And Jon, of course..

I remember the subway struggles in NYC. Every day was a short story of hope, despair, redemption and, oh, boredom too. You have nailed all those feelings and tossed in some grey snow for good measure. Thank you